


Nothing Left But the Dying

by fourthage



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:23:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3670599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourthage/pseuds/fourthage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bar is only a halfway point.  Shepard between falling and breathing again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Left But the Dying

**Author's Note:**

> Trekkiemage did a wonderful mini comic of the opening of this that you can see [here](http://trekkiemage.tumblr.com/post/115501169826/yesterday-fourth-age-uploaded-a-lovely-read).

The bar's less crowded than she expected.  
  
Shepard can't remember her death.  She wonders if that should bother her, but she's thirsty and the stool in front of her is empty.  She sits.  It's an old-fashioned bar made of dark wood, use and age giving the counter a warm glow.  There's no bartender, but when she thinks that she'd kill for a decent bourbon, the drink appears in front of her and she doesn't think it strange.  She takes a sip and it's the perfect blend of smooth and smoky.  
  
There's a mirror hanging above the bar.  It's too high for her to see her own reflection, but she catches glimpses of other patrons moving behind her.  The mirror is murky—dirty perhaps, or warped by time—softening the figures into unrecognizable smears of color.  She could turn around for a better look, but she's going unnoticed for the first time in forever and wants to savor it.  She takes another drink.  
  
Someone sits down next to her.  She doesn't turn her head, doesn't look.  She tips her glass back again.  It burns the back of her throat.  
  
The person next to her coughs, and she shoots an irritable look sideways.  And then she turns completely, caught between regret and joy.  
  
“Mordin!”  
  
He smiles like she's caught him in a joke.  “Shepard.  Almost surprised to see you here.  Thought—hoped—this would be unnecessary.”  
  
“It's good to see you too.”  
  
“Assumed understood.”  Mordin takes the drink from her hand and sniffs it.  “Good you didn't finish.  Harder that way.”  
  
Facing him, she sees that it wasn't the mirror that was murky.  He's in sharp focus, as is the bar, but things start to go fuzzy a few meters out.  Still, some of the shapes seem familiar.  One, Alliance blue, pulls at her memory, and she stands, intending to follow, to _see_.  Mordin puts up a hand.  
  
“Not yet,” he says.  “That and this.”  He holds up her glass. “Not for the living.”  The edge of the glass catches the light, and there's a flash of red.  
  
The Reaper.  The beam.  Anderson and the Illusive Man.  And something else, lurking on the edges of her mind where the fog still lingers.  
  
“I'm dead.”  
  
“Not dead.  Not yet.  Can choose.”  
  
Shepard recoils, as _choose_ reaches into the fog and touches something raw and bleeding.  She's under attack again and she has no weapon to fight against something she knows can't be real.  
  
“Are you really here, Mordin?”  
  
He pulls his head back in mock affront.  “Shepard.  Of course not.  Know better.”  
  
She did.  That he admits it is comforting.  “Why you?”  
  
“You trust me.  Know I would never give false data.”  
  
“So where's the real you?”  
  
“Avoiding topic.  Uncharacteristic.”  
  
She takes her bourbon back from him, but doesn't drink.  “Maybe I want to talk to a friend for a while.”  
  
“Bad liar, Shepard.  Surprised you need to think about it.  You were one for action, seldom saw you hesitate.”  
  
“I'm not sure I have anything left to give.”  
  
“Possible, but unlikely.  Wouldn't have choice otherwise.”  
  
“If you're just from my head, why are you arguing with me?  
  
“Only mostly, Shepard.”  
  
She grimaces and throws him an exasperated look.  He smiles back unperturbed.  
  
“So you are out there somewhere.”  She waves her hand to encompass the fuzzy edges of the room.  “Tell me your somewhere includes a beach with seashells.”  
  
His head does that odd backwards motion she remembers so well, the quick jerk that means someone is being particularly slow.  “Was joking, Shepard.”  
  
“Right.”  Shepard swirls the bourbon in her glass and suddenly feels like crying.  It had been a good thought, that promise of far shores and calm waters, not just for Mordin, but for Thane and Anderson, and everyone else who'd died on her watch.    
  
“Ah.”  Mordin lays a hand over hers.  “Don't worry.  Got it right at the end.”  
  
That does it.  Shepard blinks back tears and says, “You know, Eve's pregnant already.  Wrex says she's going to name one of them after you.”  
  
“Unwise.  Krogan hostility toward salarians unlikely to disappear for some time.”  
  
“Yeah, well, she's pretty good at talking people around to her way of thinking.”  
  
Mordin hums a stanza of _Pirate King_.  “Yes,” he says.  “Will be honored.”  
  
They're both quiet for a bit after that.  Mordin's fingers tap the bar in an irregular rhythm, perhaps to some song in his head.  Shepard watches the mirror some more.  
  
Mordin's fingers halt, head tilting like he's heard something.  “Don't mean to rush, but you need to choose soon.”  
  
The shapes in the mirror are growing sharper.  
  
“What if I don't?”  
  
“Not an option.  Chose nothing, finish dying.  A choice in itself.”  
  
She's never had a death wish.  This should be an easy choice.  She has decades left.  She has friends and family who will miss her.  She has an order (a plea) from a lover who'd never demanded anything before.  
  
And Shepard knows none of those reasons are enough.  Not here, not in this place.  After making so many choices for other people's lives, for other people's sakes, she can only make this one for herself.  And she is so very tired.  
  
“Shepard.”  There is a hint of urgency in Mordin's voice.  
  
Her clothes are Alliance fatigues.  Shepard laughs, resigned.  Even in death, huh?  She's been a good soldier.  She's done everything that was asked of her.  The mission was clear: destroy the Reapers.  And it's finished.  
  
She pauses.  
  
No.  Not just destroy.  The why is important.  It was always important.  _Why_ was Shepard pressing Liara to talk to her father.  _Why_ was James getting his N7 tattoo.  _Why_ was Joker dancing with EDI and Cortez letting go.  It was breaking a dozen regs on top of the Presidium and a tango that would have been unthinkable thirty years ago.  
  
She didn't fight to make war.  She fought—she fights—to make the future.  
  
The bar fades away into the fog.  Mordin lasts a moment longer.  “Happy for you,” he says.  “Look forward to talking when you come again.  Not too soon!”  He's gone before she can thank him.  
  
The fog is turning dark.  Her ears pop, and there's a distant roaring of wind.  She knows her body is hurt.  She'll be going back to pain.    
  
For a moment, the outline of the bar appears again.  
  
Shepard turns away. She chooses, and she breathes.  
  
  
  



End file.
